Rain

Now the rain is twelve billion fingers
tapping rapid-fire on my rooftop.

And occasionally, when the sky calls for crescendo,
the fingers fly down furiously
in forceful fortissimo.

And afterward, the score reads “calm down, now,
decrescendo, now,”
and there's something like peace
for this sodden house and puddled yard.

And the clouds roll by quickly now,
and haul their twelve billion fingers along,
performing Schumann on shingles, and
coaxing out spring birds
to hum along in the rising mist.